Dead Man's Guns Page 8

‘Ned!’ Tess said, rising to her feet.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Santana ordered. To Ned he said: ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Ned Browning. I told you before.’

  ‘You told me a lot of things before,’ Santana said, keeping his seat. The muzzle of his Colt was trained on Tess. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I work for Orson Bright,’ Ned said, his eyes flickering from Santana to the uncertain blue eyes of Tess. ‘I lied to you on the trail because I wanted safe passage.’

  ‘You just ran off and left these women behind?’ Santana asked.

  ‘I didn’t know where they were,’ Ned said honestly. ‘When I found out they were missing I came back to find them.’

  ‘Noble,’ Santana said mockingly. He now shifted his feet and stood with catlike grace. Ned still held his own Colt, but he had no wish to start shooting in the confines of the tiny shack with two women present. He and Santana continued talking as if they were acquaintances who had not met for a while, catching up on events.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Ned asked Santana.

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ Santana said with a faint smile, ‘but I am waiting for a man.’ He tilted his head toward Tess, ‘Her lover, Frank Lavender.’

  Tess smiled and said: ‘You’ll have a long wait, Frank Lavender has never been my lover. He has never been on this mountain and never will be.’

  ‘I guess you would say that,’ Santana remarked. ‘I heard otherwise. I’ve been hired to kill Lavender, and when I see him that is exactly what I’ll do.’

  Ned Browning was frowning deeply. He had been told that he was Frank Lavender. The gunman did not seem to think so. ‘You know him, do you?’ Ned asked. ‘Lavender, that is.’

  ‘I know Frank. There was a time that we rode together. Though he was smarter then, it seems. The Frank Lavender I knew would not have risked getting tangled up in a fight like this for a—’ his eyes shifted again to Tess. Ned was glad that Santana had not spoken whatever last word he had had in mind.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Ned asked.

  ‘That’s a question, isn’t it? I don’t want you hanging around, and I can’t let you ride off to warn Frank. If I start shooting, it might bring other men on the run and that would warn Frank as well.’ Santana shrugged. ‘What do you suggest, drifter?’

  ‘Just let us go,’ Ned offered, not believing that Santana would. ‘We won’t talk.’

  ‘Mother Rose can’t be moved, Ned,’ Tess said before Santana could respond. ‘You could just leave, and—’

  ‘I already said that he’s not leaving,’ Santana said sharply. He seated himself casually again. Ned, who had been thinking matters over, decided to tell the truth as he now knew it. Some of the truth.

  ‘Listen to me. Frank Lavender is not here, he never has been here, as the lady told you. The rumor got started for some reason, I’ve heard it myself. But if Frank Lavender is here, he’s a ghost. No one’s ever seen him.’

  ‘Ghosts don’t participate in gunfights,’ Santana said with quiet confidence. ‘Everyone says that Lavender killed a gunhand named Royce Traylor in a shoot-out at a saloon in Hoyt’s Camp.’

  ‘Everyone is wrong,’ Ned said. ‘It had to have been someone impersonating Lavender.’ Who it had been, he did not say, of course. At the same time Ned had been trying to assess his chances of shooting Santana without the women, one or both, being accidentally struck by bullets. The chances seemed slim, especially since Santana continued to keep his pistol barrel aimed in the direction of Tess as he had since Ned had entered the shack, believing that ‘Frank Lavender’ would not wish to see his woman shot.

  Nor did Ned wish it.

  ‘We have reached an impasse,’ Santana said, ‘have we not? I can’t let you leave and yet I do not wish to kill you. I wonder if you could be convinced, if only for the sake of the women, to lay down your gun and sit quietly somewhere?’

  At that moment Mother Rose groaned shallowly. Her legs twitched just enough to cause a ripple across the blankets covering her. Tess got to her knees beside the old woman’s bed. She looked up at Ned with eyes that pleaded, but were filled with confusion.

  ‘No,’ Ned said with deliberation. ‘I can’t be convinced that it’s in my best interests or that of the women to lay down my gun.’

  ‘I thought not,’ Santana said without obvious disappointment. He still held the upper hand and he knew it. ‘I suppose it’s up to me, then, to make some sort of decision.’ Before the last word was out of his mouth, he had fired his pistol. Ned had been watching Santana closely, alert to any movement, or shift in manner. Even so, when it did happen, the shot was surprising, and surprisingly accurate.

  Ned had seen the flicker of resolve in Santana’s eyes and had thrown himself to one side as the bad man triggered off a round. The bullet slashed past Ned, ripping through his shirt, grooving its way through the flesh along his ribs. The night was filled briefly with blinding light and the sudden thunder of the gun.

  Tess screamed as Santana leapt to his feet. Outside, against the cool earth, Ned continued to move. He managed to roll beneath Santana’s startled paint horse without being stamped on, and he came up behind the outlaw’s saddle, Colt cocked and ready. When Santana, back-lighted by the fire in the iron stove, appeared on the porch, Ned shot him dead.

  Santana had been lifting his pistol at the same moment, but he had trouble finding Ned in the darkness. When Ned’s bullet struck home, Santana’s eyes went wide with disbelief. Perhaps, like many killers, Santana had never believed that he, too, could fall victim to the gun.

  The outlaw fell to the ground and lay still in the night. Ned eased out from behind the horse, his legs trembling, his pistol still held at the ready in case Santana was not as dead as he appeared to be. Tess stood in the doorway, the fingertips of both hands touching her lips, her eyes reflecting shocked disbelief and relief at once. She started to rush toward Ned, stopped and waited as he walked unsteadily toward her.

  Pausing to toe Santana’s body and toss the gunman’s pistol aside, Ned made his way to the door, holding his side.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ Tess said. Ned shook his head negatively, although his side felt as if someone had laid a red-hot branding iron across it. The wound was bleeding, but not much. He was shaken, not from the impact of the bullet, but from knowing how near it had come to ending everything.

  Mother Rose lay still on the cot, her face ashen. Ned did not think the old woman was breathing. ‘I think the shock of the gunfire was too much on top of everything else,’ Tess said in a faint voice. ‘Her heart … she’s gone, Ned.’

  Ned had peeled off his shirt and Tess bound his side with a strip of cloth torn from Amos Shockley’s not-so-clean sheet. There would be time later to clean the wound properly, not now. Now they had to go, and Ned knew it. The shot might bring more hunters. He told Tess to gather up whatever she owned.

  ‘We can’t go now!’ she objected. ‘Mother Rose … we can’t just leave her here like that.’

  ‘It has to be now, Tess,’ Ned said sternly. ‘We don’t know who else is prowling around the forest. There could be more killers out there in the night.’

  ‘But, Mother Rose—’

  Ned interrupted her. ‘Ask yourself if Mother Rose would rather see her dead husk buried or know that you got away safely. We go, Tess. Now!’

  NINE

  Outside they could now see the fires burning across the river, small red beacons in the darkness. ‘They’ve torched Billy Lofton’s house, Mack Paulsen’s as well,’ Ned said, answering Tess’s unspoken question. ‘It can’t be long before someone will come to burn down your home as well. We have to get off the mountain.’

  Ned swung into leather and told Tess to mount Santana’s paint, but she refused. ‘I can’t,’ she said nervously. ‘A dead man’s horse.’

  ‘Swing up behind me then,’ Ned said peevishly. Tess was willing to do that and he felt her arms around him, her cheek against his back. Taking the reins to Santana’s horse
he led the animal along behind them as they trailed back toward the Bright house.

  ‘You’ll have to ride the old gray horse,’ Ned said as they wound their way through the timber. ‘The buckskin has had some work today – I can’t ask it to carry double all the way to Hoyt’s Camp.’

  ‘Is that where we’re going? Hoyt’s Camp?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll be safe there. Probably your father, Andy and all of the men are spending the night in town. The mule skinner wouldn’t be willing to rent out his animals to tow the barges along a night road. There’s too much risk of injuring one of them in the darkness.’

  Tess was mounted on the hastily rigged gray horse as they finally started away from the house. The old animal seemed surprised to be moving, but was not balky. Deep in the shadows of the night forest, they still could see no glimmer of light from Hoyt’s Camp. Ned said: ‘Well, that dark-eyed killer made it pretty clear that I am not Frank Lavender, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tess replied.

  ‘Then why did your father tell me that story about his having hired me?’

  ‘He needed help, Ned. He was desperate for any help at all.’

  Ned could understand it, but that did not mean he appreciated having been put in this dangerous situation. After another half mile, he spoke again: ‘Who am I then, Tess?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ned. If I did I would tell you, but the truth is no one knows.’

  ‘Hell of a way to go through life,’ he muttered without looking at the blond girl riding beside him.

  Eventually they emerged on the hilltop overlooking Hoyt’s Camp. At a distance it was silent and small, the glow of its many lamps barely illuminating the patch of prairie where it stood. ‘You go directly to the hotel,’ Ned instructed Tess. ‘You can ask at the desk if anyone you know is registered there. If not … stay there anyway. Don’t take it upon yourself to ride back to the ranch no matter what.’

  His words were stern, his face set. Tess, who had no intention of trying to return to the ranch, did not understand his dark mood. She did, however, know him well enough to see that there was something else on Ned Browning’s mind.

  ‘What is it, Ned? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Keep Frank Lavender alive for just a little longer,’ Ned answered.

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Tess, a man was sent to kill me. And if someone had been around to identify me as Frank Lavender, or rather the man using Lavender’s name, Santana would have done the job without mercy. He was sent, as I say. That is, he was hired by someone and there is only one man who could have done that.’

  ‘Lyle Colbert?’

  Ned nodded. ‘I intend to pay him a little visit. Maybe Ned Browning couldn’t arrange a meeting with Colbert, but I guarantee you he will talk to Frank Lavender.’ He paused. ‘Especially now that his hired executioner is dead.’

  ‘You’ll get yourself killed, Ned! It’s a crazy idea.’

  ‘Maybe. What do I care, really? I am a nameless, homeless man who is probably an outlaw on the run. I have a chance to do something – for all of you. Right now, the houses that Billy Lofton and Mack Paulsen worked to build are burning, and probably your house will be next. What gives Colbert his sense of power? No man owns a river, and throwing a chain across it does not make it so. He has to be run out of the territory once and for all to keep this from continuing.’

  ‘You make it sound noble,’ Tess said with some heat. ‘It’s not! It’s just suicidal.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter much,’ he shrugged. ‘No one can miss a man who doesn’t even exist.’ They had reached the outskirts of Hoyt’s Camp. The settlement, so silent at a distance, revealed itself now as a boisterous, rollicking timber town.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ Ned told Tess. ‘Go directly to the hotel – and stay there!’

  ‘Ned,’ Tess said as he turned his horse’s head southward, toward Lyle Colbert’s stronghold, ‘you are wrong. You do exist, and I would miss you very much if something were to happen to you.’

  The road leading south, toward Lyle Colbert’s house, passed through rolling hills. Here only scattered pines grew, most of the former timberland having been cleared during the construction of Hoyt’s Camp. There was a low crescent moon rising slowly in the east as if it were an effort to crest the mountains. The buckskin, although weary, moved easily beneath Ned Browning. There seemed to be few men around. Some of the Colbert gang had crossed the river to destroy the property of Billy Lofton and Mack Paulsen, others may have been dispatched to the sawmill or into Hoyt’s Camp to confront the timbermen. Ned did not try to guess Lyle Colbert’s plan. He was in sight of the long house, before he was even approached.

  ‘Alvin, is that you? someone called from out of the darkness. Then: ‘Hey you, who are you, and where do you think you’re going?’

  Ned reined in and sat his saddle loosely, hands on the pommel. Two riders appeared out of the night shadows and squinted at Ned. Both had rifles across their saddlebows. ‘What do you want?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘I need to see Lyle Colbert,’ Ned said easily.

  ‘Oh, you do? And just who in hell are you?’

  ‘My name’s Frank Lavender,’ Ned replied smoothly. The two guards stiffened. One of them walked his horse forward a few steps, peering at Ned.

  ‘It is Lavender!’ the man, the one who had been with Royce Traylor when Ned shot him said. ‘I know him from the saloon.’

  ‘Lavender,’ the other, older man said hesitantly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I already told you. I need to talk to Lyle Colbert.’

  ‘Did you know that Santana’s after you?’ the younger man asked.

  ‘No,’ Ned said, ‘he’s not. Not anymore.’

  ‘You don’t mean …? But you and Santana used to ride together, didn’t you?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ Ned answered. ‘Anyway, he came looking for me. I did what I had to do – business is business. That’s the reason I want to talk to Colbert. Business is business, and he’s down a man now.’ Santana. So that was who the dark man had been. Ned remembered that Santana was the one who had murdered the elder Bright son, Dan. Well, that was one old debt repaid.

  ‘I don’t know if we should let you through,’ Ned was told.

  Ned’s answering smile was visible in the faint light of the coming moon. ‘Boys,’ he said coldly, ‘I don’t think you can keep me from it.’

  The younger man, the one he had sized up as reluctant to fight back in the saloon, turned his eyes away. The other Colbert rider was thoughtful.

  ‘I suppose maybe we couldn’t, Lavender. But do you mind if we just ride along with you?’

  ‘Grateful for the company,’ Ned said, and he started the buckskin forward, the two Colbert men trailing him, muttering to each other. Another few minutes found them in the yard of the Colbert house and Ned swung down, loosely tying his horse to the wrought iron-supported hitch rail there.

  ‘You two coming in?’ he asked affably.

  ‘We’ll see you to the door,’ the older rider said. ‘Just to make sure.’

  Ned shrugged, stepped up onto the awning-covered front porch and rapped at the door. ‘You don’t need to do that,’ he was advised. ‘Just go on in.’

  Ned palmed the doorknob and stepped into a carpeted entranceway decorated with antlers and a striped Indian blanket. The two Colbert men followed at a safe distance, their rifles held waist-high.

  ‘Let me ask the boss first,’ one of the guards said. ‘Charlie, you know what to do if he starts anything.’ Then the guard tramped down a short corridor to a heavy oaken door where he rapped and entered. After a minute he returned. There was a look of surprise on his face.

  ‘He says he’ll see you.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ned replied.

  ‘He says he’ll see you if you aren’t wearing a gun.’

  Ned shrugged and shucked his Colt, handing it grips-first to the older man. ‘Don’t lose it,’ he said. No one smiled in return. Taking a
deep slow breath, Ned walked down the corridor to the now-open oaken door and entered.

  Lyle Colbert sat behind his desk, wearing a dark-blue town suit, starched white shirt and black bolo tie. The clawlike fingers of his right hand were resting on an ivory-handled Colt .44. A fire burned low in a native-stone fireplace, casting spirit shadows on the wall. Behind Colbert’s desk was a tall window flanked by red velvet drapes. Beyond the window Ned could see the moon lifting itself higher into the sky.

  Colbert’s sapphire eyes glittered as he studied Ned Browning. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, stroking the pistol resting on his desk. ‘Is it true that you killed Santana?’

  ‘It’s true. As to what I want, Colbert, I want work. No, it’s not the work. I want money. As much as I can milk the situation for.’

  Colbert relaxed mentally just a little. The motivation was one he could understand. ‘What about your loyalty to—’

  ‘Loyalty don’t fill the purse,’ Ned snapped. ‘I kind of like that little girl of Bright’s, and I thought I’d give him a hand. But I saw what I was up against soon enough, and I don’t like hanging my life out on a limb for nothing. The loggers promised me money, it turns out they don’t really have any. At least not enough.’

  ‘You are usually well paid, I take it,’ Colbert said in his thin voice.

  ‘I command more than Santana ever did,’ Ned answered. ‘You shouldn’t have to ask why. Look who’s standing here now.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Colbert’s eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder if I could trust you, Lavender. You were working for the loggers. Now you claim that you want to change sides. I can’t say much for Santana, but he was loyal. When he hired on to do a job, it was always done, without second thoughts.’

  Colbert’s long-nailed hand tightened around the ivory grips of the Colt revolver. ‘No, Lavender. I just don’t think I can afford you.’

  The pistol came up and fired. Colbert wasn’t much of a shot. The bullet whined past Ned as he dove for the floor and rolled away from the desk. When he came to his feet he found himself beside the fireplace, and as Colbert fired again, another wildly aimed shot which sang off the stone hearth, Ned grabbed the end of a burning brand and flung it at Colbert.